


A Proper Suit

by WritLarge



Series: John Wick World Building [1]
Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: First Meetings, Gen, Jonathan needs a suit, M/M, Winston POV, mild flirtation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-15 20:42:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13039029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritLarge/pseuds/WritLarge
Summary: The first time that Winston met John he fell in love, just a little.It was probably why he couldn't deny the young man a favour, even one by way of Marcus. Thankfully, sartorial assistance was a delight to provide.





	A Proper Suit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beedekka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beedekka/gifts).



The first time that Winston met John he fell in love, just a little.

The man Marcus presented was slim and strong, with lush dark eyes that reminded Winston of another young man he’d known. A pale boy with a rough northern accent that had made him quiver. It had been a lifetime ago. Winston had never forgotten that initial flush of adoration, innocent and simple in a way that the rest of his life hadn’t been. Nothing had come of it, of course, just as nothing could ever come of this.

The ring on his left hand was an ever-present reminder of that lesson. 

John Wick was Marcus Sterling’s latest protégé. He’d made a bit of a stir to acquire the spot. The vast majority of newcomers to their business bowed out within the first couple years, unable to build the relationships and resources needed to be successful. Others would flout the rules, step on toes, and exit far less gracefully. Most of the untested rabble never made it across the threshold of the Continental, but people liked to talk even when they weren’t trying to curry favour with him and Winston was never one to turn away free information.

Marcus lead the conversation, like the veteran he was, introducing John and impressing upon him the importance of respecting the establishment. It was all very rote. Then he’d caught sight of Elmas Avci and shot off on some sort of urgent errand, leaving John perched awkwardly in Winston’s booth. Winston hardly minded. The young man was pretty enough company.

“Do you have any questions about the hotel?” he asked, sipping at his usual martini. It was a fragrant mix of his own design that was barely more potent than tap water.

John hesitated, clearly weighing his options, thoughts running across his face for Winston to read at his leisure. Should he wait for Marcus? Make polite conversation? Would it be better to take advantage of the opportunity to question the Owner or to defer politely and avoid potentially making a bad impression?

Winston waited.

“Is it really neutral ground?” John finally said, pragmatism winning out over any need for approval. Excellent.

“The Continental Hotel, in all its incarnations, provides shelter and service to those in your profession and has existed in one form or another for... some time.” Winston withdrew a cigarette from his case and tapped it against the tabletop. “We are an independent organization, parallel to that of the High Table which I’m sure Mr. Sterling has explained. We function in a mutually beneficial arrangement. You will receive nothing but excellent service, I assure you.”

“So you’re private contractors?”

“Of a sort. We exist to serve and we are bound by the rules, some official, some not.” 

“What are the unofficial rules?” Winston met John’s keen eyes. It was a straightforward question, one that surprisingly few people asked. With a flick of his wrist Winston’s lighter sparked to life and he lit the end of his cigarette.

“Owners, with the sole exception of issuing excommunicado status, are not permitted to make or otherwise interfere with contracts.”

John nodded, likely well aware of the potential risk, given that one of Marcus’ former cubs had crossed the line in the London Continental less than a year ago and had paid the price of their excommunicado.

“And the High Table?”

“They, in turn, are not permitted to interfere with the workings or employees of the Continental. These rules are part of an old agreement.”

“Have they ever been breached?” Winston took a drag on his cigarette and resisted the urge to laugh. Of course, they had. The Hotel and the Table had an unfortunate history of pulling each other’s pigtails, but rarely had true offence been given. 

“Members of the High Table do, from time to time, try and exert pressure on our little kingdoms. It has never gone in their favour.”

John smiled wryly, “It’s good to be the king?”

“Yes,” Winston raised his glass. Indeed it was.

“And the coins instead of cash?” Not always instead, the coins were as much a key to a lock as they were currency. There were other methods of payment. Winston had no opportunity to answer, however.

“Got to keep the unwashed masses in their place,” Marcus answered as he returned, a hand braced on John’s shoulder, creasing what appeared to be an oddly-fitted Brooks Brothers suit. “Access to the Continental is about more than money.”

“Well said.” Coins provided access to all of the services available. Rooms were sometimes granted to guests on a cash-only basis, but only to those already peripherally aware of what the Continental was or at least willing to turn a blind eye to it. Rates were high and unchanging, and you wouldn’t find any mention of the Continental in public venues. No online travel ratings, no advertisements or listings by which to find their number. It was rare for an unknown guest to attempt to make a reservation.

“C’mon. There are a few people I want you to meet still.”

“Thank you,” John nodded politely at Winston as he rose.

“Enjoy your stay, Jonathan,” Winston said. John blinked but didn’t correct him. Where the name had come from, tripping easily off his tongue, Winston didn’t know. 

It would quickly become something of an endearment, however. 

From that point on, he kept an eye, an ear, and perhaps a few other attentive senses attuned in John’s direction. He was a gifted young man, if unpolished, coming and going like a dark shadow and very quickly building his own reputation. Margaret had apprised him of several contracts that Jonathan had collected on. His Switchboard file was rapidly filling out and the staff had nothing but good things to say: polite, tidy, considerate. John Wick was turning out to be one of those rare breeds, a gentleman despite the blood on his hands.

Oh yes. Winston was quite enamoured.

Marcus had mentored several others. Like a father of a pride, he trained and connected his cubs, the foundations he provided benefiting the community as a whole. But John was a first, even for him, and Marcus knew it too.

“I need to ask a favour.”

“Do you?” Winston was intrigued. A dangerous thing to ask for, favours from him. 

“It’s for John,” Marcus smirked, too confident. “He needs a suit. A proper one. And I thought to myself, who better to ask?”

A suit. Winston took in Jonathan’s form where he stood at the bar, fetching a drink. Dangerously lean, his hair grown out and beard coming in to mask his youth, John was wearing another off-the-rack black suit. Single-vented and too loose in the trousers with none of the added benefits a proper suit could offer. Marcus was right.

“You can’t manage a tailor’s appointment?”

“Winston. Are you really going to turn down the opportunity to play dress up?” Winston’s weakness for fashion was well known, as was perhaps his weakness for John, to a select few at least. He hoped Jonathan would continue to prove worthy of the attention. Marcus continued, “Besides, the Seamstress and I are... not on good terms at the moment.”

Oh ho. Winston’s curiosity was piqued. What had Marcus done to inspire her wrath? 

“Very well. I’ll arrange it,” he said. As favours went, it was a trifle. An appointment with the Seamstress was never a chore and he’d enjoy taking John himself. 

“Thanks.”

Winston booked an appointment for John and they agreed to meet at the hotel where they would take a car together. It was a small matter for him to leave for a few hours during the day. His Concierge at the moment, a multi-lingual young woman by the name of Fabiana, was nearly at the end of her second internship and would soon be taking her impeccable Italian to Rome where she’d been offered a place for her third internship. If Julius liked her well enough, she might be made apprentice. 

Both Winston and Julius were approaching an age where committing to an apprentice was essential, smoothing a transition of ownership that might take a decade or two. Charon had completed his second apprenticeship in New York, coming to Winston from Lagos, had left him for Hong Kong and was now in Munich completing a fourth internship, rounding out his skill set. Winston had given him an open invitation to return and was quite optimistic. Charon had already turned down two other offers, polite but firm, and yet all Winston had received were smiles and the occasional coded message containing a delicious bit of gossip. 

Two weeks later, Winston greeted John at the door when he arrived, punctual as always. A sleek town car waited for them at the curb.

The car was part of a private service owned and managed by the Continental to ensure quality and confidentiality. The hotel was the centre of an extensive hub of service providers, all of whom were vetted by and beholden to the goodwill of the Owners. There were other businesses, extensions of various crime families and so forth, catering to them and those who worked for them. But none could match the reliability and high standards of the Continental. 

As the car pulled away, they passed a few buildings owned by the hotel or Winston himself. The hotel and Winston were nearly as one these days. Much of the property surrounding the current hotel had been accumulated in order to provide a secure base and buffer within the dense city, preventing any too-clever members of the High Table from encroaching upon them. Most of it was managed at a distance, office buildings and condos, though some housed staff and their families. 

The ride was quiet. Jonathan was not a man given to chatter. As they made their way north, however, he finally spoke.

“Thank you for coming to introduce me.”

“It’s no trouble.” It wouldn’t be, though Winston would extract some small payment in return from Marcus later on principle.

“Still,” John said, face serious. So polite. He’d be irresistible if only he had just a little more charm and little less stoicism.

“I don’t wish to presume, but can I take it that you have no strong opinions about style?” Winston certainly hadn’t seen any signs of personal style in Jonathan’s wardrobe choices to date.

“I’m more concerned about practical application.”

Yes, Jonathan did have the rough edge of former military stamped on him, didn’t he? Doing business in a suit must have chafed at first. Winston had seen too many military trained beginners think they knew better how to manage themselves in this world, ignoring tradition and being surprised when they failed. Not that Winston was entirely married to the old ways, but there were reasons for how things were and it was best to learn them before attempting change.

“It’s not just about practicality. Poise and presentation are very much a part of what we do. If you want to be taken seriously, you need to make an impression. Allow your competence and confidence to be assessed with a glance.”

“I can be confident without a bespoke suit,” John raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“Of course you can. But fashion is not about what you are, it’s about what you communicate.” 

The car turned down an alley, arriving at the back entrance to a Bridal Shop in the Garment District. Winston lead John inside, passing by racks of satin and chiffon, to a narrow staircase almost impossible to see if you didn’t already know it was there. John, to his credit, didn’t so much as blink at the incongruity. 

“Winston!” A voice cried as they emerged onto the upper floor. The Seamstress, an elegant Vietnamese woman, grasped his hand in both of hers. 

“Hello, Mya.”

Mya and Winston were old friends. At a hair’s breadth short of five feet she was often dwarfed by her clients, but the New York Seamstress had been at the top of her game for too long to be intimidated by anyone. Winston was terribly fond of her, and she never failed to find some lovely bit of unique fabric or unexpectedly perfect accessory to tempt him with.

“Let me introduce you,” he swept his arm back to where John stood, looking ever so slightly amused. “John Wick this is Mya Dinh, our Seamstress.”

“Mr. Wick,” she bowed her head slightly. Her own suit was a vivid red fabric that was embroidered with gold thread, setting off the column of her throat left untouched by the high asymmetrical bob cut of her hair. 

“Ma’am.”

“You look terrible.” Mya circled him, keen eyes roving over John’s form.

“Umm-” John was clearly at a loss, which amused Winston greatly. Too used to spending the bulk of his time with Marcus and other colleagues, and perhaps not experienced in facing down such a formidable woman as Mya, Jonathan balked.

“No, no. Not to worry. I’ll set you to rights,” she said, tapping a nail against John’s chest. “Do you have any preferences?”

“Uh, black?”

“No,” Mya shook her head at him as if chastising a child.

It was a beginner’s mistake. Black was expected, associated heavily with criminal enterprise and darkness, but it was a poor choice. Full black stood out. It was too heavy and sharp whether it was day or night. Black was ominous. Funereal. And truly, if one wanted to vanish into the shadows, a dark grey provided a far less solid form to mask.

John stared over the top of her head, mouth opening and then, “Winston?” 

“Three pieces, American cut, with the usual adjustments.” Which would provide John with a fit that didn’t restrict movement, double vents on the jacket for weaponry access, trousers with only a slight break to avoid tripping hazards, and a few other additions that John would find useful. “Perhaps you might show us some fabric options?”

“Mmm.” The Seamstress called out and a younger woman emerged from the back clutching a long measuring tape. “Off with these rags, Mr. Wick.”

“It’s a Brioni,” John said as he followed her orders, draping the suit jacket on a nearby chair.

“I am aware.” There were few designers that met the standards required by their trade. A designer suit, however finely made, would never offer the balance of practicality and style that a properly made “suit of armour” would provide. “The shirt and pants as well, please.”

The Seamstress would take more detailed measurements than a regular tailor might and John would be able to order a wide variety of items from her without having to come for an initial fitting. Suits were her main business, but Mya retained other staff and contractors to provide accessories. The handmade to order leather holsters were especially popular. 

John shrugged off his shirt and trousers, revealing a pair of slim-fitted boxers in a bland grey. Mya clucked at his lack of undershirt. Winston couldn’t bring himself to disapprove. As the girl flitted around John, taking measurements, he was able to admire Jonathan’s form, lean strength overtly on display. With pale skin and little hair on his torso, only a handful of healed wounds could be seen. 

What drew Winston’s attention most, however, were the tattoos. The latin inked into his back was reminiscent of what a former marine might wear, and the cross on his shoulder, unfortunately marred by a raised scar, along with the large hands in prayer on his middle back hinted at a more spiritual side to the man. Not that it signified much. A rather large number of the key players in their world adhered older, more traditional faiths. Catholicism loomed large among the European families at the Table. Winston himself cared little for what others believed so long as it didn’t interfere with their work. 

A few more barked commands and a young man emerged with three bolts of fabric. John’s eyes flickered between them, staring intently, likely unable to discern much difference. 

Winston reached out and pinched the first option between his fingers, “One hundred percent wool?” It felt like a medium weight, worsted wool suiting. 

“Yes,” she said. He nodded his agreement and Mya waved her assistant away. “And the lining?” 

“The usual viscose,” Winston answered for John again. She would no doubt line a dark grey working suit with an equally practical dark fabric.

“And the additional heavy layer?” “Heavy” fabrics were new and improving rapidly. The additional layer would provide increased protection. It wouldn’t stop a direct hit completely, but any resistance at all would be to John’s advantage.

“Of course. Is this the same bolt as offered in the spring?”

“Better. It won’t stop a .45 entirely, but we’ll get there soon enough.”

They continued debating the finer details while John stood stiffly as he was being meticulously measured. The dark bespoke suit would fit perfectly when it was finished and the young man would strike a stylish and imposing figure. Given free rein, however, Winston would have dressed Jonathan in rich shades, a shirt in merlot burgundy or saturated Egyptian blue, and perhaps have buttoned him into a suit of that gorgeous warm grey metallic silk/wool blend Mya had shown off last time he’d visited her. 

“I’m sure you know best,” he conceded to her on the matter of vents and looked over to see John nodding along, soaking up the discussion. 

“That should be enough to begin,” Mya snapped at the measuring girl who retreated into the back.

“Excellent. Jonathan will need shirts as well, of course. Two white, two black, and at least one in something more fun.” 

“Of course.”

John put himself back together, his plain white shirt with single button cuffs, tucked into black trousers that were just a shade too long. Winston picked up the jacket and helped Jonathan into it, smoothing out the line of the shoulders. John’s hair just reached the collar.

“I need a trim.”

“On the contrary, I think it suits you,” he said, hoping to undermine any ideas John might have of returning to a more military aesthetic. “The beard as well. Though perhaps with a little more definition around the edges.”

John raised a hand to his chin thoughtfully but didn’t speak.

And that was that. Mya admonished them to return with preferred holsters and nicer shoes for the next appointment, the date and time inscribed on a card, and promised that at least two shirts would be ready to try by then. John dutifully nodded, deferring to Winston and following him out to the alley where their car waited.

“All right, Jonathan?” he asked, once they were safely ensconced in the vehicle and pulling away.

“I’m a little out of my depth.”

“You’ll learn.” Winston would happily teach him, so long as he could avoid any appearance of favouritism. Perhaps he’d have to make Marcus’ repayment more extravagant after all if only to deter other requests.

“Thank you,” John said, face solemn. Winston wondered if the stilted stoicism that he projected was natural or learned. 

“I like to encourage those who are both reasonable and talented. It’s always nice to have people about who can be relied upon to be professional and polite.”

John scowled ever so slightly.

“Ah. No doubt you’ve met some of your more dubious colleagues?” A grimace appeared. “Not to worry. They won’t last. In another year you’ll have a whole new set to bemoan. Five years after that, you’ll shrug and ignore them too.”

“And in another five years, I won’t even notice they’re there?”

“Jonathan,” Winston clucked with a smile, “by then they’ll either be scurrying out of your way or trying to win your favour.”

John stifled a smile and turned away. Humility. How adorable.

Three blocks later he asked, “For the next fitting, will I meet you at the hotel again?”

Winston agreed, delighted. He’d hadn’t been sure if John would continue to want his company or advice, and was pleased by the confirmation.

The next couple of appointments were a flurry of fittings and adjustments, shirt styles and tie choices, and the discovery that John had never worn a shirt requiring cufflinks. He took it all in stride, however, and Winston was exceedingly proud of him. Jonathan had a quick mind and a keen eye. He also took advice without any required ego stroking. 

The final result was spectacular. A dark grey suit, three pieces, set against the nearly black shirt and dark silk tie he’d chosen. Combined with John’s hair sleekly combed into place and his beard trimmed to frame his cheekbones, he looked dark and lethal and Winston desperately wanted to take a picture. 

“Marvelous,” he nodded at Mya who grinned. “Almost perfect.”

“Almost?” John said.

“Give me your hands.” Winston took each of John’s cuffs, in turn, switching out the plain titanium cufflinks with the gold-edged red squares he had brought. “There. A touch of colour for effect.”

The red and gold were striking against the rest of the ensemble. John stared down at his hands.

“Mr. Wick,” John’s head snapped up at his name. The Seamstress held out a bag containing the clothes that he’d worn into the shop. “You had better take this with you or I shall be forced to burn it.” 

Winston waited for John to retrieve the bag and take his leave, “Wait for me in the car?” John nodded.

He turned to Mya and she clasped his hands again. “He seems better than most, but you’re too fond of him.”

“I know.” Why deny it? In Mya’s shop, he had not bothered to be as circumspect as he might have been at the hotel. There he would have been the Owner, and with the other owners he would have been New York, but here in the privacy of the upper floor he could be only Winston. He and Mya had known each other too long for subterfuge.

“Be careful, Anh.” The Seamstress tightened her grip, concern creasing her brow. 

“Always, my dear.”

Joining John in the car, he signalled for the driver to go.

“Everything all right?”

“Yes, quite. Would you like to be dropped off at Marcus’ house?”

“Actually, I was thinking about getting a drink.” The curve of John’s lips was barely visible in the fading light of the day. “I mean, I’m already dressed and I owe you a martini at least.”

“Jonathan,” Winston beamed. “I know just the place.”


End file.
